


Alliances

by Sparkle_Free



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-22
Updated: 2010-08-22
Packaged: 2017-10-11 05:02:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/108706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sparkle_Free/pseuds/Sparkle_Free
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A war breaks out and Watson is drafted, in spite of his previous injuries.  Holmes does his best to put a stop to it, but how far is too far?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ingridmatthews](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ingridmatthews/gifts).



They were sitting at the table, drinking their tea in companionable silence when there was a sudden, hard _rap_ on the door. Watson folded over the edge of his paper and shot Holmes a quizzical look, but he merely shrugged and called for their visitor to enter.

He had expected their landlady, irritated by something Holmes had done, or perhaps an over-eager client; instead, a young man strode in, military uniform crisp and clean, letter in hand. Holmes jerked to his feet and immediately gripped the edge of the table, unable to tear his eyes away from the small piece of paper, heart in his throat.

Watson stood slowly, accepting the paper with a determined nod. The man nodded back, and turned on his heel and left. They may have spoken; he was unsure.

Watson unfolded the paper, a strange excitement lighting his eyes. When he finally turned to look at Holmes, however, it was gone, replaced only by an empty sadness.

"I'm sorry," was all he said.

Holmes made a strangled sound and fled from the sitting room.

He was well aware of the pending war; had been for quite some time, in fact. Mycroft had needed his assistance on more than one occasion, which he was glad to give, if it meant his brother was able to keep the matter in hand. They had accounted for everything, he had thought.

However, they hadn't accounted for _this_.

He wasn't sure how long he laid on his bed before he heard Watson's familiar limp approaching the door. He rolled toward the wall as the door swung open, unable to look into his lover's eyes. Watson crossed the room slowly; the bed dipped under his weight as he settled himself next to Holmes.

"Holmes," Watson began. He reached to grip his shoulder. "I -"

"When?" Holmes whispered. He heard Watson shift behind him, the sound of paper rustling.

"Two weeks," he said finally.

"But, your previous injuries -"

"Were not so extensive as to stop me from stitching up injured men." Watson tugged at his shoulder, then, and Holmes rolled onto his back so they could look at each other. Holmes reached out to grip his wrists, pulling them to his chest. "My country needs me, Holmes. Surely you of all people understand that."

"You have already served your Queen and country," Holmes said, slightly pleading. "You are _mine_ now." He drew Watson's hands to his face, kissing the pulse points of his wrists, holding the palms against his cheeks as though their presence could hold him together somehow.

"I cannot be yours alone any more than you can be mine alone, Holmes," Watson said gently. "You know that, don't you?"

Holmes didn't answer. Couldn't answer. Instead he tugged Watson down until they were resting together, side by side on their narrow bed. They shifted to face each other and he gripped Watson's jacket desperately, pressing their foreheads together.

"John..." he said brokenly. Watson ran a hand through his hair, resting his fingers at the nape of his neck.

"I'm still here, Sherlock," he murmured back. Holmes moved closer, their legs tangling as he pressed their chests together, feeling Watson's heart beat against his own. Watson moved to murmur soft words in his ear, urging Holmes toward him until he was laying half on top of Watson, his cheek resting against his shoulder. He closed his eyes and reached his hand up to run over Watson's other shoulder, imagining the twisted flesh below that he knew all too well. Watson reached up to still the movement.

"I will come back to you," he promised. Holmes shook his head.

"You cannot know that, Watson," he said hoarsely.

"I _will_," Watson insisted. Holmes fell silent, then, unable to continue. Instead he pressed his lips to Watson's, trying not to imagine they were counting down to the end. Watson moved so Holmes was laying on top of him fully, his knees raised up on either side of Holmes' hips as they slowly shifted together with no great urgency. He relished in just being able to feel Watson's warmth radiating through their clothes, the pulse in his veins, his breath in Holmes' hair as he dipped his head to taste his throat.

It was hours later when Holmes finally slipped from their bed, careful not to wake Watson. The instant the door swung closed behind him, he hurried toward the front door.

He needed to pay his brother a visit.

\------

"You cannot allow this to happen," Holmes said firmly. His brother merely dipped his pen in the ink once more. Holmes sat on the other side of Mycroft's desk, glass in hand, gripping it with more force than necessary. "Watson is _crippled_. His limp impedes his speed; his shoulder effects his range of movement," he said desperately, hating the words as they rolled off his tongue. "He is too _old_; there are a thousand younger men who could take his place -"

"And yet he is an exceptional surgeon, something you yourself have boasted on several occasions. And thirty-four is hardly too old for military service." There was another long silence as Mycroft shifted his papers. "I cannot circumvent military orders simply to keep your biographer from the front line, little brother," Mycroft finally said without looking up from his paperwork. "You will simply have to learn to get along without him, for a time."

Without him. Holmes tried to imagine what Baker Street would be like without Watson there. No one to lay on the settee with, no one to coax him to eat. No one to curl around at night, to touch and be touched by. He would move from room to room like a ghost, living on scraps of news from some trench that may as well be halfway around the world, waiting for him to come home. _If_ he came home. Holmes shuddered. No; it was impossible.

There was only one thing to be done, then. He squared his shoulders in determination, sitting his glass down on the desk and clenching his fists in his lap.

"Send me, as well."

Mycroft looked up at him incredulously. For a long moment they simply stared at each other; then Mycroft's eyes widened and his lips parted slightly, a sudden, painful recognition overtaking his features. His pen clattered to the desk. "Oh, Sherlock..." he breathed. Holmes felt himself flush, but continued to hold Mycroft's gaze, steadfast. Mycroft looked down and shook his head. "No. I cannot."

"Why?" Holmes asked indignantly, anger suddenly coursing through him. "Do you think I'm unworthy?" he said viciously. "If you no longer think I am strong enough, or _brave_ enough -"

Mycroft's fist struck the desk with a loud _crack_, rattling the pens and sending a stack of papers to the floor as he heaved himself from the chair to glare down at him. "I will not risk my brother _dying in the trenches_," he shouted. His voice echoed for one painful moment, and Holmes sat frozen, too shocked to move. Mycroft ran a hand over his haggard face and drew a deep breath. "Not as long as it is in my power to prevent it."

There was a long silence. "In essence, that is what you are doing," Holmes said, forlorn. He slumped forward, staring at the carpet.

"I am sorry."

He squeezed his eyes shut as all the disbelief, pain and _terror_ surged through him at once. He reached out blindly, sweeping his arm over the desk, not registering their glasses tumbling to the floor and shattering. He could feel the wetness welling in his eyes and blinked rapidly, but only succeeded in sending the first trails down his cheeks. He paced the room, fighting against the wail threatening to break free from his throat, lifting precious trinkets from the mantle and throwing them across the room to burst, fragments throwing the reflection of the fire across the walls as he choked on his anger. He finally heard himself shrieking insensibly as he hurled paperwork into the fireplace, barely noticing when there was a tentative knock on the door and Mycroft hurried to lock it. Sparks flew up around him, catching on his cuff as a searing pain shot up his arm and Mycroft suddenly gripped him from behind, pinning his arms to his sides, hauling him away. Mycroft released him once they were safely away and he spun around once more, pressing his palms against the wall and resting his forehead between them, breathing heavily. Tears were still flowing down his cheeks, dripping from his chin and wetting his collar. He heard his brother move behind him; a moment later, a large hand rested between his shoulder blades. They stood that way until his tears finally subsided.

"Go home, brother," Mycroft said softly. "You have a fortnight. Don't waste your time here."

With a nod, he left silently.


	2. Chapter 2

He arrived home that night to find Watson in his old room, his uniform spread out on the bed before him. He stepped inside carefully, not making a sound, watching as Watson ran his fingers over the fabric, smoothing out non-existent wrinkles. Watson turned, then, smiling sadly when he saw him.

"I know you don't understand," he said. He took a step forward, but Holmes was already moving toward the bed, wrapping one arm around Watson's waist and reaching to run his fingers over the front of the uniform.

"Put it on for me," he heard himself say. Watson started, looking at him with wide eyes. Holmes merely looked at him, eyes roving over his familiar face, silently asking him to understand. Watson stepped back, then, nodding. He carefully undressed, eyes never leaving Holmes', as he stripped himself bare of his civilian clothing and began to don the military attire. When he was done, Holmes simply stared at him. At this stranger, whose eyes shone peculiarly and who held himself with kind of confidence he had never seen in his dear Watson.

"Tell me what it feels like," Holmes said finally. Watson hesitated, and Holmes reached out to run his hands over his shoulders, dipping down and across the taunt fabric over his chest. Watson seemed emboldened by his movement.

"I feel..." he struggled for a moment. "Brave," he finally said. He looked at Holmes closely, but when he saw no trace of amusement he went on. "Useful," his voice softened, and he gazed into the distance wistfully. "_Needed._" Holmes ran his fingers over the medals pinned to his chest.

"Oh _Watson._" He didn't bother to correct him; they both knew what he meant. Being needed within their walls was so very different than being needed outside of them. He drifted closer, then, ghosting his fingers down Watson's arms. There was something about the way he held himself that made his heart flutter.

"What happened?" Watson asked suddenly, looking at Holmes' hand. He gripped it and turned it over, finger brushing over his wrist. Holmes winced as the movement sent a shock of pain through him. He looked down as well to see a large burn under the remains of his cuff. Watson tugged his medical bag closer, flipping the latch with one hand as he pushed Holmes' sleeve back with the other. Holmes watched as Watson carefully bandaged the wound, uniform shifting across his chest as his arms worked. When Watson finally released him, he reached for the buttons of his own shirt absently, suddenly wondering what it would feel like, to have that fabric moving over his skin.

Watson reached for his own buttons, but Holmes quickly reached for his hands, stilling them. He met Watson's surprised gaze. "No," he said quietly. Watson's eyes softened, and he reached to help Holmes with his clothing. Every movement of the fabric over his bare skin caused him to shudder. Soon, he stood fully exposed before Watson, his shaft already jutting out between them. Watson gripped his shoulders, forcing him back onto the bed and settling over him. Holmes gasped as a rush of excitement went through him; Watson was usually so passive, but here he was, looking down at him with dark eyes and such a sinful expression he could feel his cock twitch in response.

"Watson," he gasped. He lowered himself between Holmes' spread legs, and his breath caught at the sensations: the slight scratching on his nipples as Watson's chest moved, the cold metals dancing against his skin, the heat of the fabric stretched taunt over his lover's cock. He spread his legs farther, shifting to rub his sac against the buttons of Watson's fly, moaning aloud at the sensation. Watson ran his fingers down his arms, the feeling of their bare skin gliding together a delicious contrast to the rest of their bodies. Watson thrust against him roughly, the movement just forceful enough to be slightly painful, and Holmes wrapped his arms around his shoulders, whimpering in his ear, rolling his hips forward eagerly. Watson repeated the movement, thrusting against him again and again until he was panting and writhing, the pressure nearly too much to bear.

Watson suddenly leaned back just enough to grip Holmes' shaft, and Holmes' hands scrambled for purchase on his shoulders. He cursed, thrashing, as Watson held his cock to the material covering his own groin, grinding against him. Pleasure shot through him as he rested his forehead on Watson's shoulder, watching as they moved together.

Watson leaned forward suddenly, and he jerked as one of the cold metals skimmed over his nipple just as Watson's tongue slid over the shell of his ear. He spasmed, and with a choked curse he came, another wave of pleasure coursing through him as he watched his seed soak into Watson's uniform.

Watson leaned back and chuckled as he wiped at the wetness spreading over his front. His eyes were bright, energetic. He looked more _alive_ than Holmes had ever seem him, moved across the room with a fluid grace Holmes had never known him to possess. He could do nothing but lay there, mesmerized, until Watson came back with a small rag and carefully cleaned him. Holmes pulled him down then, kissing him softly, tenderly, tugging Watson's clothed form against his naked one and settling against him.

"I think I'm beginning to understand," he breathed. Watson gripped him tighter, drawing him in for another slow kiss as he drew the blanket over them.

The days passed achingly fast. Watson's moods were erratic: some days, he seemed more vibrant and alive than Holmes had ever seen him; on others, he was morose, dragging Holmes to bed and begging him not to leave, at the expense of cases and police alike. They passed long hours merely holding each other, fingers ghosting over skin as they whispered their love into each other's ears, over their lips, against their flesh. Still, each day found Holmes more grounded, more determined to make their time well-spent.

Holmes slowly became accustomed to thinking of it not as Watson leaving him, but as Watson protecting him. It was an intoxicating feeling, gazing at Watson in his old uniforms. Holmes had never been a particularly submissive lover, but Watson had brought his old uniforms into their shared room, and he found himself urging his lover into them. Watson smiled brighter, and a confidence seemed to overtake him. Though he'd never cared for it before, suddenly Holmes loved the feeling of being splayed out naked before him, Watson bending him over and taking him roughly in their shared bed. Sometimes Watson would grip his wrists, pinning him in place as he did what he liked, leaving Holmes helpless and moaning under his ministrations.

One afternoon, Mrs. Hudson was serving him tea when Watson wandered out of their bedroom in his uniform, fiddling with the cuff and asking her if she could sew a button back on for him. Holmes' mouth fell open slightly as a faint blush dusted across Watson's features. Mrs. Hudson agreed, sighing as she playfully tutted at him for not being careful. After a moment she caught Holmes' expression and smiled at him.

"Really, Mr. Holmes, it's just a uniform," she said with a laugh. He snapped his mouth shut and looked away, ignoring her as she lifted the tray and crossed to the door. His embarrassment didn't stop him from jerking at his flies the moment she was out of the room - he heard her lock the door behind her, and Watson smirked at him - then he was bent over the arm of the settee, head thrown back against Watson's shoulder, forgetting all else.

All too soon, he was standing in their doorway, watching Watson carefully consider each item he'd spread out in front of him before either shoving it into the bag at his feet or laying it out on their bed. Holmes noted that all of Watson's favorite things - his preferred pen, his well-worn dressing gown, his leather-bound notebook - all made their way onto the bed for Holmes to keep. He crossed the room quietly, plucking his favorite blanket from the bed and wordlessly folding it. Watson sat back on his heels and watched him as he tucked it lovingly into Watson's bag. For a moment, they simply looked at each other; then Watson smiled sadly, drawing him into a long, tender kiss. He finally broke away and stammered something about errands before he fled their home.

He walked for what felt like hours. He stopped at the riverfront, on an isolated strip and sank to his knees, letting his tears fall where no one would know.

It seemed like hours later when he finally stifled his premature grief. With a determined breath, made his way back home.

He stopped on his way home to pick up Watson's favorite cigars, smiling wistfully as the tobacconist inquired about Watson. He explained that the doctor might not be around for a while, stopping himself before he added the _if ever_ that threatened to roll off his tongue. Instead he nodded and accepted his package with a thanks, stepping back out into the chilly wind.

He walked slower the rest of the way home, stopping on impulse at a shop Watson frequented to buy a bottle of Watson's favorite wine; if there was a chance of this being their last night together, he would not let the slightest imperfection mar it for the world.

When he finally arrived home, he climbed the stairs with a slight trepidation, even as his heart began to beat wildly at the thought of the evening they would pass, together.

He pushed open the sitting room door to see Watson seated in his usual chair. Mycroft was seated across from him. Mycroft turned to look at him as he stood in the doorway, dumbfounded.

"Hello, brother."


	3. Chapter 3

Mycroft gestured for him to enter, and Holmes bristled when he realized Mycroft was treating him like a guest in his own home. He stepped inside, placing his packages on the table and and crossing to perch on the edge of the settee. He looked between them anxiously. Watson was looking into the fire, face inscrutable; Mycroft was leaning back in his chair, watching him closely. Holmes swallowed hard, turning to face his brother fully.

"It appears there has been a change in plans, brother," Mycroft said quietly. "Your good doctor is no longer attached to the regime that's leaving tomorrow."

He stared at his brother for several seconds, mouth open, trying to process his words. He gasped slightly, a smile slowly spreading over his face as he realized what this meant. It felt like a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and he wanted to laugh out loud with giddy joy. He raised a hand to his mouth to stifle the urge, instead turning to look at Watson. His smile faltered somewhat as he took in his body language. "Watson?" he asked.

Watson finally turned away from the fire to look at him. He looked so worn and tired, it made it chest ache. "Yes, it appears my medical records were anonymously recommended for a secondary review. I have been declared no longer fit for duty," he said dully. He looked back at the fire, and Holmes and his brother exchanged worried glances. After a tense moment, Watson rose with a sigh. "Please excuse me," he said quietly. "I believe I'll go for a walk." He crossed to the door, limp more pronounced than usual, and left quietly. Holmes stared after him, torn between following him to make sure he was alright, and staying and thanking his brother profusely.

"This wasn't a favor," Mycroft interrupted his thoughts. "I have a case for you." He pulled a large envelope from his jacket. "It was harder than I anticipated to have the doctor's orders reversed at such a late junction. In return, I have a task for you that must be completed as soon as possible," he passed the envelope to his brother. Holmes took it curiously, pulling out the papers detailing the case and his travel arrangements. He glanced over the details of his trip. Two train tickets. One hotel room. He stared at the paper, forgetting the case momentarily.

"Brother," he breathed, looking up. Mycroft merely smiled at him.

"I did not spare the two of you from the war front only to put a continent between you," Mycroft said softly.

"Then, you are not upset by...?" Holmes trailed off.

Mycroft chuckled. "I knew from the moment I saw the two of you together you would spend your life with the doctor, if able. It brings me much joy to know your relationship is of a more fulfilling nature than I had previously assumed."

Holmes smiled, then, feeling a rush of affection for his brother. Finally he opened the papers on the case to peruse them.

"And a slightly more selfish observation," Mycroft said softly, "I can trust that you are safe when the doctor is with you." He pushed himself to his feet. "I have work to attend to," he said, suddenly looking tired. Holmes stood as well, hovering awkwardly, unsure of what to say.

"Of course. Thank you," he said, clapping his brother on the shoulder. His hand lingered, and Mycroft smiled slightly. "Thank you," he said again, his voice thick. Mycroft shook him off with a gentle nudge and walked to the door.

"I expect that issue," he nodded to the paperwork, "resolved within the month."

"Of course." He watched as the door swung closed behind his brother, then turned to the fire. He noticed a paper on the floor next to Watson's chair and reached to pick it up curiously. He unfolded it. He grimaced as he read, his heart sinking.

_Dr. Watson has limited range of movement in his left arm, and a considerable limp in his right leg that impedes his movement. It is recommended that he not return to duty, for the safety of his fellow soldiers._

He dropped the paper to the ground with a curse, grabbing his coat and running out the door.

He wandered Watson's favorite haunts for hours, anxiety growing in him each time he was told Watson hadn't been there. He was just considering informing the Yard of his friend's absence when he approached the waterfront, at nearly the same location he himself had broken down that same afternoon, still deserted. There Watson stood awkwardly, and Holmes realized with a pang he'd either left without his cane, or had thrown it aside at some point. He approached slowly, giving Watson time to turn away should he need it. Watson stayed still, letting Holmes approach until he was close enough to enfold Watson in his arms. Watson sighed, but didn't return his embrace.

"I don't know why -" he broke off, pressing his face against Holmes' shoulder momentarily, "I don't know why I thought I was capable of this," he said quietly. Holmes hugged him tighter, squeezing his eyes shut.

"You are more than capable. The man who said those things about you is an idiot." An absolute _imbecile_. Standing there, he suddenly had no idea what he had been thinking. He buried his face in Watson's hair. "Come home. Please," he pressed a kiss to the top of Watson's head. "Let me make it up to you."

Watson leaned back and smiled tiredly. "Don't be ridiculous. There's nothing for you to make up." Guilt shot through him as Watson pulled away fully and started to walk back. He opened his mouth to speak, but instead bit his lip, and followed his friend home silently.

They walked back to Baker Street in a tense silence. Watson moved painfully slow, but Holmes stayed a step behind him, patiently slowing his steps. The sun dipped behind the buildings as they walked, and Watson shivered as the wind gust harder. Holmes shrugged out of his jacket and stepped forward to offer it to him. Watson stilled, looking at it for a moment before he took it silently. He tried to shrug into it, wincing as he lifted his arm. Holmes stepped forward and reached to help, but Watson jerked away. He stood there for a moment, hands raised in the air in front of him as they looked at each other. His chest ached, but he simply dropped his hands, looking away. The moment the door closed behind them, Watson turned back to him, eyes focused somewhere around his collar.

"I'd like to be alone," he said softly.

"Watson..." Holmes reached to grip his wrist, but Watson stepped backward, still slightly off-balance without his cane.

"Please, Holmes," was all he said. Holmes dropped his hand and nodded, unsure of what to say. Watson gave him a half-hearted smile before he turned and carefully climbed the stairs.

Holmes paced the sitting room, pipe clenched in his hand as he thought. Watson clearly felt inadequate. He tried to shake off the rush of guilt that thought brought. It was ridiculous, of course; Watson was invaluable to his line of work. He crossed to the table and lifted the papers his brother had left. As soon as they were engaged with a new case, he told himself, Watson would realize how foolish he was being.

Determined, he climbed the stairs once more to Watson's old room to find him kneeling in the center of his room, a lit candle on the table and a trunk open next to him. He was carefully folding his uniforms, placing the pieces back in the trunk with a slightly dejected air.

"Watson," Holmes said softly. Watson stilled, but didn't turn to look at him. Holmes moved to go to him, but stopped what Watson seemed to cringe away. "Are you alright?" he asked.

"It's nothing, Holmes," Watson said. "Did you need something?"

"Well," he cleared his throat awkwardly, his usual confidence suddenly gone in the face of his friend's sadness. "Mycroft has a case for us. They believe our ambassador to France may be trying to undermine -"

"For you," Watson interrupted quietly. Holmes stumbled over his words for a moment.

"What on earth do you mean?" he asked after a while. His heart sank as Watson finally looked at him. The slight dampness in his eyes glittered in the soft glow of the candle, the lines of his face thrown in sharp contrast. He looked so broken that Holmes wanted nothing more than to cross the room and hold him.

"Your brother has a case for _you_," Watson said. "Not us."

Holmes took a hesitant step into the room. "What are you saying?"

"I shouldn't go with you. I - I won't. You read what..." he trailed off, gesturing in the direction of the sitting room.

"Watson, don't be ridiculous," he said. Watson seemed to fold in on himself farther, and he finally risked crossing the room. He reached out tentatively to touch his arm. "I need you."

"You don't _need_ me," Watson snapped suddenly. He jerked his arm away and forced himself to his feet with difficulty. Holmes leaned back, afraid to help, afraid to leave. "All you need me to do is follow you around like some... _pet_, admiring you and telling you how goddamn _perfect_ you are, when you're searching for clues or catching criminals or..." he trailed off, looking over Holmes' body sadly. "Anything else, really," he whispered. He shook his head, taking another step back. "No. I can't go, Holmes. I'm sorry." He brushed past him without another word.

Holmes stood there in Watson's old room until the candle burned out, feeling guilty and ashamed.


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning Holmes packed alone. The bed had been clearly slept in, but there was no other sign of Watson anywhere. He sat at the table picking at his breakfast, staring at his train ticket, contemplating.

He knew he needed to go. His brother was counting on him. His _country_ was counting on him.

Mrs. Hudson came in shortly after, clearing away his mostly full plate with minimal fussing. "Still, you ate more than the poor doctor did," she commented off hand. He sat up straight.

"Watson already ate?" he asked. She nodded.

"Took off as soon as the sun was up, poor dear. Seemed upset about something," she glared at Holmes pointedly. "He said it was his own fault, but..." she trailed off meaningfully.

"Of course it wasn't," Holmes muttered, looking down. She sniffed.

"I know that and you know that, Mr. Holmes." She swept out the door without another word.

He waited as long as he could, gaze flicking constantly between the case file and Watson's chair. Finally, he rose to his feet with a curse and penned a quick telegram to his brother, entreating him to keep an on eye Watson while he was gone. With a sigh, he grabbed his bag and left.

He boarded the train reluctantly, wondering the entire time where Watson had disappeared to. Wherever he went, he hadn't seemed like he would want to be found. With a sigh, he settled into his seat, staring morosely out the window, wondering what to do about this twisted situation.

Holmes liked twisted situations, generally, when he wasn't directly involved or responsible for them. His own private life he preferred to be ordered, structured; but his structure did not, as a rule, include John Watson sending him off on a case alone. He closed his eyes with a groan. The sooner this case concluded, the better.

He arrived that evening at a beautiful hotel, realizing with a pang his brother had spared no expense, likely attempting to indicate his approval. He frowned when he walked into the bedroom and saw the double bed against the wall. With a sigh he dropped his bags on it and crossed to the table, intending to begin working immediately. His brother had given him a month - he imagined Watson's morose expression the night before, and swore to himself he would have it solved within the week.

"Frederick Temple Hamilton-Temple-Blackwood, 1st Marquess of Dufferin and Ava," Holmes read. "Apparently Dufferin has been..." he trailed off, looking around the empty room. He cleared his throat. "Right," he ducked his head and began to read silently.

"... undermining relations between France and Russia," he murmured. "What do you make of -" he trailed off again. "Bugger," he muttered, tossing the papers on the table and running his hands over his face.

A telegram arrived from his brother, drawing him from his thoughts. He thanked the delivery boy, turning it over to read. Mycroft indicated he had been to see Watson, and inquired as to whether he should pack Watson onto a train convinced it was his own idea. He shook his head with a slight smile.

He contemplated the message for a long time before he sent back a reply in the negative. If Watson wanted to come to him, he would come to him. Until then, he would simply have to manage alone.

He threw himself into work immediately; he met with Mycroft's contacts, poured relentlessly over the case file and tried not to dwell too much when he found himself once again attempting to ask Watson's opinion. He tossed the papers on the table and attempted to retire for the evening.

He stared at the ceiling, realizing he wouldn't be able to sleep, thinking of Watson. He eased his pants over his hips, gripping his shaft and trying to tease himself to hardness, hoping for an easy way to sleep, that night. He closed his eyes, but the only image he could conjure of his lover was of his eyes, dark and sad, and his dejected posture before he'd departed. With a curse, he jerked his trousers back up.

As he lay in the double bed alone that night, all he could think was that he needed to solve this case as soon as possible.

\-------

He sat outside the cafe, sipping his tea, eyes moving nonchalantly over the other patrons. To the casual observer, he looked like a man with a bit of time on his hands, and nothing to do with it. In reality, he was a man who had just spent a week in a beautiful hotel room with a romantic view.

Alone.

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, gaze flicking to a small table in the sunlight, next to the fence seperating the cafe from the sidewalk. The ground was still wet from the overnight rains, glittering in the sunlight, giving everything a soft, cheery look. Holmes frowned, trying to draw his mind back to the case. Dufferin's mining business was the most likely cover for his operations; it wouldn't be difficult to pin the man for good once they had evidence to that end.

Mycroft had managed to procure an informant in the household for them; unfortunately, all the paperwork he'd managed to steal for them had been worthless. They were dearly hoping this would turn things around for them.

There. He sat forward slightly as the second man slid an envelope across the table to Dufferin. A Mr. Evans-Thomas. Worked in the mining business with Dufferin; had recently returned from Russia. He watched closely as Dufferin slid the envelope into his jacket pocket and rose to leave.

A moment later, so did Holmes.

He followed closely, much closer than he might have, before. Dufferin slid into an alley after a few minutes, glancing furtively back and forth. Holmes watched from the mouth of alley as the papers were passed off to a third person. Dufferin returned the way he'd came quickly; the moment he walked by, Holmes shifted from the shadows carefully, and quickly ran down the alley and attempted to follow the third man.

The man darted down a side street, and Holmes looked back over his shoulder with an irritated shout. "Wa -" he cut himself off abruptly, shaking himself and turning back. He was so frustrated with himself he nearly missed the man as a door banged open to his right and the man ducked inside. He hurled himself through the doorway; shots rang out a moment later and he windmilled backwards, cursing as a bullet grazed his right forearm. He clutched at it, trying to stem the flow of blood as he shifted out of view of the doorway, shivering as he pressed his back to the wet stone wall. He pulled his revolver, wincing at the movement as he clutched at the wound with his left hand. The gun shook; he drew a deep breath to steady himself.

When he finally risked peering around the door frame once more, he was looking into an empty room, front door and window both standing open, curtain fluttering in the light breeze. He dashed inside and looked up and down the adjacent street hopefully, but it was deserted. Holmes realized with a pang he'd lost the man. He stalked up and down the street, peering in windows and alleyways, but he found nothing. No clue to where his suspect had disappeared to. With a curse, he turned to trudge back to his hotel room, blood still seeping between his fingers.

The instant the door clicked shut behind him he stripped off his shirt, throwing the bloody mess into the corner and crossing to his bag. He hadn't packed any medical supplies, he realized. He pulled out a clean shirt and with a disgruntled sigh, began to tear it into strips. Soon, he had a small pile of makeshift bandages at his side, and began to wind them haphazardly around the wound. When he was finished he collapsed on the settee, flinging his long legs over the arm and curling in on himself uncomfortably.

He glared at the double bed before he closed his eyes and turned away.

The next morning, he received a telegram from Mycroft's informant telling him that Mr. Evans-Thomas had been seen entering the estate that morning, a fresh bundle of paperwork clutched in his hands. The men had locked themselves in the study and refused any refreshments. He waited anxiously for a message informing him of the status of the papers.

He sat at a table in the dining room, head bowed, fork pushing food around his plate. Wondering idly what Watson had been up to. He hadn't even received a letter; not that he'd written one, either. What would he say? _My dear, I am sorry I called you a cripple and suggested you were worthless? It was for your own good, old chap._ He snorted.

He looked up, startled, as a man slid into the seat across from him. Hope flared through him painfully, and he flushed.

"Brother," he said, surprised. "Why are you here?"

Mycroft reached across the table and grabbed his full plate, placing it in front of himself as Holmes waited. Dread twisted in the pit of his stomach. Surely, Watson hadn't done anything foolish? Had the man possibly harmed himself? Had he -

"The doctor is fine," Mycroft interrupted his thoughts. "Well, as good as can be expected, with you here. Which is why I came to speak to you. The doctor hadn't left your rooms in two days. I inquired as to his state of mind through your landlady. Her reply was... less than heartening. And I see your own abilities are suffering in his absence as well," he gestured with his fork toward Holmes' arm, where his poorly-made bandages hinted through his clothing.

"I am fine," he said softly. "I will have the case completed in the next few days, Mycroft, I promise you." Mycroft dropped his fork to the plate and wiped his mouth on a napkin.

"Please," Mycroft said as he rose and tossed the napkin down onto the empty plate, "Don't do anything too foolish."

Holmes glowered as Mycroft bade him farewell and made his way through the sparsely populated restaurant. With a sigh, Holmes stood and strode purposefully outside. He would put an end to this, he decided, and sooner rather than later.

An hour later, he stood outside Dufferin's estate. A few minutes later, he was inching through the halls, trying to find Dufferin's study.

There were voices carrying through a door at the end of the hall. He approached silently, pleased to see it was open slightly. Inside was a small sitting room, with an adjoining room that was lined with bookshelves. Through that doorway, he could make out the forms of two people - Dufferin, and what appeared to be a secretary. He slipped inside carefully.

He eased closer to the door. He could hear Dufferin and his secretary moving around inside; he looked around the room he was in and spotted the papers on the far table. He stepped closer, eyes trained on the them. They were so _close,_ if he could just reach them, this whole mess would be over. He could go home. He inched farther.

Dufferin turned in the other room, crossing past the open doorway. He hesitated. He would be in full view when he grabbed the papers, and it was imperative that he remained hidden. If Dufferin managed to flee the country before these papers were in government hands, all of his work here would be pointless. He had a meeting with Mycroft's informant that afternoon. It would be easier - and safer - to let him steal the papers. He'd already informed Mycroft of the possibility of the miner's involvement; surely, he could wait the afternoon to acquire the proof.

He thought of Watson, waiting for him. Watson, not leaving their rooms. Watson, curled in on himself, looking sad and lost.

The instant he moved forward once more, a movement from behind him drew his attention. He turned around just fast enough to see a man standing behind him, the barrel of a revolver pointed at his forehead.

"I _told_ you I was followed yesterday!" then man snarled. Holmes heard Dufferin step into the room behind him.

"Indeed," was all he replied. Holmes risked a glance over his shoulder, but Dufferin appeared unarmed. If he could get the gun from his accomplice -

He turned forward, catching a glimpse of the butt of a gun rushing toward his head just before he slumped to the ground, unconscious.


	5. Chapter 5

He jerked awake some time later with a groan, muffled into the gag shoved between his lips. His hands were bound in front of him, his eyes blindfolded. There was hard wood beneath him, rumbling gently as the wheels turned. A cart of sorts. He shifted, turning his head to feel the sun on his face. Either late afternoon, or early morning. Either way, he'd been unconscious several hours. Panic shot through him; he could be anywhere.

He jerked against the ropes uselessly. He could already tell they were expertly tied. He ducked his head, relieved he could at least move his hands to his face. He managed to pull the blindfold up just as they entered a cave. He recoiled instantly, the smell of sulfur overcoming his senses for a moment.

He was jerked from the cart by his bound wrists and thrown onto the ground, rocks tearing through his clothes and skin as he skidded on his side. He rested his cheek on the ground as he tried to gasp for breath around the gag when the wind was knocked from him. Three men surrounded him, all glaring down at him with identical expressions on their faces. He tried to force himself into a sitting position, but the nearest man simply stepped on the bindings of his wrists, pinning him. He struggled ineffectively for a moment, then slumped back down. Suddenly he knew his fate with a startling clarity.

He was going to die here.

He barely had time to process that thought. The man in front of him removed his foot from Holmes' hands onto to jerk him up by the bindings and loop his tied hands over a hook, the other two tugging on the other end of the rope it was tied to. His arms raised above his head, stopping just long enough for the man in front of him to retie his blindfold. He thrashed, biting at the gag, stretching frantically, trying to stay grounded as they lifted him once more. Still, eventually the ground dropped out from under him entirely, and he could do nothing but hang there, sightless. The only sensation he could be sure of was the rope stretched taunt around his wrists, the burning pain in his shoulders and hands. Panic was threatening to overcome him. _Watson,_ he reminded himself. _Think of Watson._

He managed to get himself under control and try to use his remaining senses, but they were eerily still. He strained his ears to try and gauge their positions around him, but it seemed as though they weren't moving; weren't even breathing. Then, there was a slight sound to his right, and that was the only warning he had before pain erupted in a line across his back; a white-hot shock of pain followed by the slow oozing of blood across the wound, down his back. He heard the men chuckle, then: two in front of him, one behind. He heard the whip slither through the dirt below him. He tensed; one of the men in front stepped forward, still laughing under his breath.

_Three feet away._

"Whats'amatter, mister?" he jeered.

_Two feet away._

"Not up to-"

There was a sickening crunch as Holmes' foot connected with the man's jaw, wrenching it to the side. He heard the man fall to the ground, the other two cursing and rushing to his aid. He swung himself up, trying to grab the rope leading to the hook. He caught it on the second try, pulling himself up farther, trying to push the hook back and out of the way with his head.

A shot fired below him. For one terrified second he was certain he must be dead; there was nothing, no sound, no light; then, there seemed to be a rush of activity below him, men grunting in pain and what sounded like bodies hitting the ground.

"Doctor!" a shocked voice yelled; then, the rope gave and he was falling, arms still stretched over his head. His feet barely touched the ground before am arm wrapped around his waist to steady him. Pain shot through him and he jerked away, wrenching the blindfold off clumsily and blinking. Watson stood next to him, several officers - including Lestrade - behind him, his brother jerking the man with the broken jaw to his feet. Another was laying face down, a pool of blood steadily spreading from his head.

Holmes collapsed onto the ground, gasping for air as the gag was pulled away. His wrists were gently unbound, but he still winced as the sore muscles suddenly protested the movement. To his horror, he felt tears forming at the corners of his eyes, and as quickly as they'd came, Mycroft was ushering the officers out of the mine, dragging the prisoners behind them. Lestrade broke away and turned, giving Holmes such a concerned look that he caught his brother's questioning glance and shook his head. Mycroft turned and followed the other officers out as Lestrade made his way back to them. Holmes watched Lestrade approach, not bothering to wipe his eyes.

"I'm fine," Holmes assured him as he stopped in front of him. Lestrade was still staring at him, wide eyed and pale faced.

"When I saw you hanging up there," he choked, "I thought -" Lestrade broke off and cleared his throat. "My God..." he whispered finally. Holmes blinked rapidly, looking over as Watson fell to his knees next to him.

Watson gripped his shoulders, eyes wide, his entire body shaking. Holmes could see in his eyes that he'd had the same misconception as Lestrade. Chest aching, Holmes reached up to grip his elbows, not daring more contact even as his body screamed for it. He gripped Watson's elbow perhaps a little harder than necessary, and for a long moment they simply stared at each other, unmoving. From the corner of his eye he could see Lestrade turn away pointedly, examining the wall of the mine. He surged forward, then, pressing against Watson, bringing his arms up to grip him tightly. Watson let out a soft gasp in his ear as he ran his hands down his back, relishing in the warmth against his skin.

"Are you hurt?" Watson asked breathlessly. He leaned back just far enough to look Holmes over carefully.

"My back," Holmes said, wincing as Watson's hand brushed over the wound. Watson pulled back reluctantly and moved to kneel behind him. "But other than that I'm fine. How did you find me?"

"I was already on my way," Watson confessed. "Mycroft wired both Lestrade and myself that you had missed an important meeting, and last anyone knew, you'd been following the suspect. This is the nearest mine to his home; Lestrade arrived shortly after I did, and Mycroft lead us here. When he told me you'd been missing for hours..." he trailed off and shook his head. "I'm so sorry Holmes," he said, carefully examining the whip mark on his back.

"What could you possibly be sorry for?" Holmes asked, looking over his shoulder, trying to watch Watson's face.

"This is all my fault," he said sadly. "If I hadn't thrown a _fit,_ and said those awful things to you... The entire way here, I just kept thinking," he swallowed hard, "Those could have been the last words I ever said to you. I'm sorry, Holmes. So sorry. I didn't mean it."

Holmes turned until they were face to face, ignoring Watson's soft protests. He gripped Watson's hands in his, looking into his worried eyes sadly. "Lestrade," he said without looking away.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes?"

"Get out."

There was an irritated huff, a faint grumble about unappreciative detectives, then soft footfalls moving away from them. The moment they turned the corner, he leaned forward and brushed his lips over Watson's. "This isn't your fault," he said softly. "It's mine."

Watson tugged him closer, kissing him firmly. "You didn't do anything wrong, Holmes," he said as they pulled away.

He didn't answer; instead, he buried his face in his lover's neck, sighing as Watson kissed his forehead. Later, he would deal with the fallout from his actions. Later, he would face the consequences of what he had done.

"For now, I just want to be with you," he whispered, lips moving against Watson's neck.

"Of course."

Mycroft's voice suddenly echoed down the cave, and they pulled away reluctantly. Watson helped him to his feet and wrapped an arm around his waist under the guise of helping him walk. When they emerged from the mouth of the mine, Holmes blinked and looked around. The sun was setting; most of the officers had already left, two incapacitated men and a corpse in tow. Lestrade and Mycroft were the only ones remaining, and Lestrade looked at Holmes once more and immediately urged them to return to Holmes' hotel for the evening. Holmes caught a glimpse of Mycroft's smirk as they agreed perhaps a bit to readily.

The instant the door swung closed behind them, Watson was ordering him out of his clothes. He began to strip quickly, already half-hard when Watson stilled his hands and held up his medical bag by way of explanation. With a sheepish smile, he carefully shed the rest of his clothes and stood bare next to the settee, Watson seated next to him, carefully inspecting his wounds.

Watson's fingers glided over his skin gently, washing and bandaging small cuts, trailing over his protruding ribs as he frowned unconsciously. He shifted and drew out a fresh cloth, wiping the blood from the gash on his back before he pulled a needle out of his bag with an apologetic look. Holmes merely shrugged where he stood, slight winces his only acknowledgment as Watson stitched the wound closed. He carefully bandaged the closed wound, and cleaned and re-bandaged his arm. It was only then that he allowed his fingers to roam for an entirely different purpose. Holmes watched as Watson ran his fingers over his abdomen, down and around his back. He closed his eyes and leaned forward to press his lips to Holmes' hip, his thigh, his side, all the while whispering soft, broken words of thanks against his skin. He buried his hands in Watson's hair as Watson pressed his lips to his naval, eyes opening slightly to look up at him adoringly.

He gently pulled away, then, stilling Watson's hands and urging him to stand. Watson immediately kissed him, pressing his tongue into his mouth and stroking, driving all rational thought from his mind. He was stumbling backwards, trying to hold onto Watson and keep track of where they were in the room, when suddenly the backs of his knees hit the bed and he tumbled down, breaking the kiss to gasp as Watson's weight settled over him, grounding him. He ran his hands over Watson's clothed back as he chuckled breathlessly, dropping his head onto Holmes' shoulder and nipping at his collarbone.

Watson rolled them over and pulled Holmes down on top of him, legs spread invitingly. Holmes couldn't suppress a moan as they settled against each other. Warm. Familiar. He wanted to bury himself in his lover's body and forget everything else existed.

But he _couldn't_ forget.

With a frustrated groan, he pulled away fractionally. Watson's arms tightened around him, trying to pull him back down. "I can't." Immediately, he could see all the self-doubt that had plagued Watson surface plainly on his face. Guilt washed over him, and he swept his thumb over Watson's cheekbone tenderly. "I have something to tell you, first. I can't - I can't do this without you knowing the truth. If you still want to, then..." he trailed off. Watson was watching him curiously, a slight nervousness overtaking his features. He didn't fight him when he pulled away again. Holmes sat on the edge of the bed and drew a deep breath.

"There was no review of your medical records," Holmes said. Watson sat up next to him, knees touching. Their hands rested inches apart. From the corner of his eye, he could see Watson watching him, but couldn't bring himself to meet his eyes. "It was me," he said finally. "_I_ was the one who said those things about you."

"You?" Watson said. Holmes reached to grab his hand, but Watson pulled it away, staring at him in disbelief. "_You_ think I'm -"

"_No!_" he interrupted. "I had to convince my brother not to let you go. Not to risk you - us."

"'limited range of movement in his left arm, and a considerable limp in his right leg that impedes his movement. It is recommended that he not return to duty, for the safety of his fellow soldiers,'" Watson recited dully, as though he had read the words several times. Holmes shuddered when he realized he probably had.

"I said nothing about other's safety," he protested weakly. Watson merely shook his head and sighed. They sat together in silence for several minutes; anxiety and guilt nearly overcoming him as he watched the expressions play over Watson's haggard face. Anger. Sadness. Disappointment.

"It's been a long day, Holmes," he said finally. "Perhaps we should sleep before we discuss this."

"Certainly," Holmes said miserably. He rose to fetch his clothing, but a hand on his wrist stopped him, tugging him down. They stretched out on the bed, Watson rolling so his back was to him, but scooting back to press against his side. Holmes listened to Watson's breathing eventually even out, and stared at the ceiling for several hours before he finally drifted off to sleep.

When he awoke the next morning, he was alone.


	6. Chapter 6

He could still make out the imprint where Watson had slept; he slid his hand over the sheets. Cold. He sat up and scanned the room, but already knew what he would find.

No one.

He threw aside the blanket and dressed slowly, mechanically. It was no less than he deserved, he reflected. And yet, it had been the least likely outcome, in his mind. Watson forgiving him was as natural as Watson _breathing_.

He winced at the thought and sat down hard. "My God," he muttered to the empty room, "What _have_ I done?" he said quietly.

He crossed to the window, leaning against the sill and staring out in an imitation of his habit at home. He looked down at the street, watching people hurry past: young men bubbling with energy, children smiling up at their mothers, bankers, governesses. All people he would give anything for, if they asked.

Anything but the one thing they had tried to take.

_And then I lost it anyway_, he thought with a bitter laugh. He stared down at them, deducing small facts about their lives as they hurried by, oblivious. He had just began to contemplate packing his things when Watson suddenly turned the corner, a bag clutched in his hand. Holmes watched in wonder as he approached the hotel. Watson stopped in front of it, his eyes slowly traveling up the stone structure. Holmes jerked back from the window before Watson could see him, heart hammering.

He was back.

There was no conceivable reason for it. He paced the room, searching for any _logical_ reason for him to return. A soft knock on the door caused him to jump, and he ran over and jerked it open. Watson stepped inside quietly, pressing the bag into his hands.

Holmes opened the bag and peered inside to see an assortment of pastries, breads and soft cheeses. "They have a dining hall here," he said, for lack of anything else. "And room service."

"I know," Watson said quietly.

Holmes looked down sadly. "But you couldn't bear to stay."

Watson hesitated. "I came back," he said finally.

"Yes," Holmes breathed. "You did."

Watson finally tugged the bag out of his hands and crossed to the table and sat. Holmes followed, not knowing what else to do. Watson placed half the food in front of Holmes and they ate silently, seated across from each other. He could practically see the cogs still turning in Watson's brain, trying to puzzle this out for himself. Holmes chewed his lip.

"Watson," Holmes began hesitantly, "If I may -" he broke off when Watson held out another piece of bread for him to take.

"Eat," he said sharply. Holmes took it meekly, accepting the rebuke for what it was. Watson leaned back in his chair and watched him eat with a careful eye. Watson finally stood, signaling the end of their shared meal. He crossed to sit on the edge of the bed, Holmes trailing behind him. Their knees brushed together as he sat, and hope thrilled through him as Watson's eyes softened, watching the movement.

"I love you," Watson said softly, voice tightly controlled. Holmes felt the knot of tension in his chest uncoil slightly at his words. He reached out tentatively, and this time Watson allowed him to slide his hand into his curled fingers. "But I am so _angry_ with you, Holmes. So very angry," he broke off as his voice shook, looking away and blinking rapidly. "You knew what you did to me, yet you said nothing. That you would let me think - and then just _leave_ -" His breath was shallow, nearly gasping. He gripped Holmes' hand painfully tight and pursed his lips for a moment, closing his eyes. "I expected to be treated better than that in your hands, Holmes."

He looked away, eyes burning. "I'm sorry," he said softly.

"Do you think that's going to fix things?"

Holmes hesitated. "I don't know that I _can_ fix things," he admitted. "I needed you. I needed you and you weren't here -" Watson opened his mouth, but Holmes held up a hand to silence him, "- and I had no one to blame but myself," he finished quietly. "I understand if you wish to leave -"

He broke off as Watson leaned in suddenly, kissing him so gently he couldn't stop himself from winding his arms around his shoulders and gripping tightly. When Watson finally pulled away Holmes pressed his forehead to his cheek, holding him tight enough that he knew it must be painful. "I would never leave you," Watson whispered into his hair.

"You very nearly did," Holmes said suddenly, voice wavering. He felt Watson suck in a swift, deep breath, and finally he raised his arms to wrap around Holmes' back. Holmes closed his eyes, shifting to press his face to Watson's neck. The room was so still he could hear the clock ticking across the room.

"I understand why you did it," Watson said softly, after a time. "Why you told Mycroft... those things. There's little I _wouldn't_ say or do, after all, to keep you by my side."

"Watson -"

"But I am not yours alone, Holmes, and I do not wish to be," he reached up and ran a hand through Holmes' hair. Holmes leaned back far enough to look into Watson's eyes. "You cannot make these decisions without me."

Holmes considered that for a moment. "If I had informed you prior, would you have agreed?"

Watson grimaced. "No," he said finally, glancing down.

"I understand," Holmes said softly. And he did; he would no more give up his own line of work, no matter how dangerous. Watson pulled back gently, and Holmes released him reluctantly. They sat on the edge of the bed, Holmes gripping Watson's hand once more. Watson looked around their beautiful hotel room, the rich decor, the thick pillows piled on the bed, the ocean lapping at the land at the edge of their view.

"It's booked through the end of the month," Holmes said softly. "Let me make at least some of this up to you, please."

Watson turned to look at him. He smiled, then, and even still tinged with sadness it sent his heart soaring. He gripped Holmes' hand tighter. "I'd rather we went home. Together."

Holmes managed an answering smile in return. "I think that's an excellent idea."


End file.
